The river covered in a thin blanket of snow, gungrey rain, the snow melting down slowly. Tripping on a slippery wet ground, the dog pulling on the leash. I almost fell down, let the dog loose. The dotted toe cap of my previously white trainers, the dots were supposed to let the air in, to let the skin breathe. Now they just let in the water. I take a step, and the gungrey rain water squeals inside my shoe. Frozen fingers, click, click, click, a disposable cigarette lighter is drenched to its plastic bones. Eventually, I manage to light a cigarette, but the strong wind doesn’t allow me to inhale. I cough. The died out cigarette is turning brown. I try to inhale, useless, I throw away the cig, the snow turns brown, too. The brown spot on the snow resembles a small burn on a patch of pale skin.
The dog runs towards a flock of crows, scaring them away. The crows fly around trying to scare him away. Useless. The crows are screaming annoyed at the dog, possibly plotting to pluck some hair from his tail to build a nest in spring. If spring ever comes.
A crow is sitting on the river bank, a cig clenched in its beak. Some other cigarette, not the one I’ve just thrown away, that has turned snow brown. The crow looks cartoonish, I even expect it to speak. It remains silent, perhaps not willing to let out the cig. Next moment I recollect that my mother used to talk to crows and claimed that they were talking back to her. I shake my head and rub my eyes hard with my frozen fingers, trying to get rid of the nasty memory. Of course, I’m not like my mother, of course, I know for sure that crows can’t speak, of course, I don’t expect the crow to speak, of course, the cigarette is clenched in its beak because the bird was trying to find food, not because it’s a cartoon character with anthropomorphic traits. Yup, I had to google this term, an-thro-po-mor-phic, dammit. I’m not as clever as I wanna look.
We headed back home. Once we’re there, I struggle to remove my wet shoes. I go barefoot to the kitchen leaving liquid gungrey traces on the matt laminated floor. There’s no spare dry pair of socks in the kitchen. Dammit. I stand barefoot, feed the dog, pour cold milk into the enamel mug that says hot coffee. Then instead of making something useful of my existence, I swing a yoyo. It sounds like a bad euphemism, but nah, it’s just a yoyo.
Ouch! Accidentally, I hit my eyebrow with the yoyo. I shrug, rub my forehead, curse quietly, I shouldn’t have bought a professional stainless steel yoyo not being a pro. I’m a professional idiot with an IQ above average. I spin the professional stainless steel yoyo up and down in the most unprofessional manner possible.
The dog asks for belly rubs, I sit on my haunches and give him belly rubs, back on my feet, I keep swinging the yoyo.
One dream has recently gone to the dogs, and I haven’t dreamed of a new dream yet. Swinging the yoyo is the best metaphor for my life, it’s like going in circles, only in the vertical direction, up and down, up and down. Not a bad way to waste a life. Safe, harmless. Up and down.
I’ve never understood the metaphor to go to the dogs, dogs are wonderful, why does this expression mean something negative? There’re many metaphors I don’t understand. There’re so many things that don’t make any sense to me. Do I make sense? Of course, not.
I sit down and give my dog more belly rubs, because he’s wonderful. He licks his butt and then licks my face, because he’s wonderful and loves me. Then I drink cold milk from the enamel mug that says hot coffee, and then I smoke inside, because outside a cig will turn brown, and there will be no flame after a click. My bare feet are dry already, and there’re no liquid gungrey traces on the matt laminated floor, and the cigarette is white and not turning brown, and my fingers ain’t freezing, and spring will come, and I swing the yoyo up and down, up and down.